The Cowboy stood in the ring while his riders demo'd horses for
prospective buyers. Apparently the format was thus: you strolled the
stalls and wrote down the numbers of the horses you were interested in, sort of like choosing sushi, only you get horse instead of California Roll.
One of the Cowboy's riders would emerge racing out of the stable,
on board the chosen one, gallop it around for a bit, and if you cared to
try the animal, you did the same. If you wanted to see more, you gave
the Cowboy a nod and he hollered, "Bring out another one!" and expected
to see the next horse galloping out pronto.
This was fun. I wrote
down the numbers of four I liked but not the cute pinto across the way.
I rode a skinny chestnut who was very sweet and obliging, then sent him
packing, and "Bring out another one!" produced in order; a lazy bright bay, a
bullish black and a dark bay who made me think. They were all quarter horses, all picked up at
sales in Kansas. I had never been interested in quarter horses. Ever. They made me think of--cows.
It had been a very long day. I still couldn't wrap myself around the idea of buying a quarter horse when I had my fantasy set on a Highland pony, or a round Connemara or Morgan or perhaps a small cross bred with only a tiny bit of Percheron. Quarter horses had thick muscley necks, funny looking haunches and eyes stuck far apart on the sides of their heads. I just couldn't do it. We were leaving Hobbs and that was hard enough, but to leave with an empty trailer...
I walked back down the aisle while Heather and her friend Sara sat out in the late afternoon sun, exhausted. I looked in at Number 4 and Number 7, who were eating their evening meals. They ignored me. The cute pinto pony gave me a whinny, but I ignored him, having at last and finally, gotten over Little Joe. Number 12, the skinny chestnut, came up to the stall door, looked me right in the eye, and gave me a slow, sweet nod. He looked awful--seriously underweight, horrible raggedy, overgrown hooves, patchy coat-- but he had been a nice ride and he had a nice eye. He didn't look much like a quarter horse but he also didn't look anything like a Percheron. What more could I ask? I took a last look at him and he nodded again and gave a little whinny, which I thought then was an unbelievable horse to human communication packed with significance, but know now, it means, 'more hay'.
The Cowboy was seated in the aisle by the office, not unsurprisingly, right next to Stall 12. We talked horse. I asked him how much. He wrote his offer on a piece of paper and handed it to me. I looked at it and borrowed his pencil, made a counter offer. We did that twice more until I felt he had made a decent offer for Hobbs-and had come down a thousand for the chestnut due to his bad condition. We shook hands.
By the time I went outside to tell Heather, the "hands" had hurriedly stuffed the scrawny chestnut int0 the trailer. It took us a lot longer to sit through the Cowboy's yakking and sign the check and get his papers. "Ah," says the Cowboy, "Now girls you seem to have a fine horse here. Four years old, and some of the best quarter horse breeding in the country. You can boast about that once you get home." I dragged Heather out before she got riled and went to say goodbye to Hobbs. Heather had humanely snuck in and untied him and he was eating his grain, but he came up to me and looked -like a baby would-- if you left it and forgot to pick it up. I felt truly awful, leaving him to yet another long trailer ride (The Cowboy said he would take him to --ironically--the Mennonite sales in Pennsylvania) and a lack of love.
We drove out of the yard, slightly rearranging a gate post with the side of the trailer (take that Cowboy!)and I read the new horse's papers, which Heather had accidentally stuck in her purse despite the Cowboy's conviction that they were his 'til my check cleared. 15.1 hands, sorrel (cowboy slang for bright chestnut) his paper name was an unwieldy Lucky C Skipster and he was a registered quarter horse bred in Kentucky. How he got to the midwest was anyone's guess, but he was a long way from Kansas and about to be farther yet, as we turned the truck, trailer and pony towards home.
Comments